


Broken Wing

by heavenseed



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Desus - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Sex, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Lemons, M/M, Mourning, Slash, canon character death, daaron, jaaron - Freeform, m/m - Freeform, the walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:05:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19465543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenseed/pseuds/heavenseed
Summary: Paul Jesus Rovia has been cut down by the Whisperers. Those who truly loved him always thought there would be more time.  The only time is now, in the apocalypse and they learn to seize the moment in the wake of losing their friend.





	Broken Wing

Aaron Raleigh watched with a pained expression as they lowered the coffin into the ground. He still couldn’t wrap his head around never seeing Paul Jesus Rovia again. Aaron couldn’t stand the thought of his friend—his strong, capable friend—rotting in a dark grave. He disappeared immediately after, ostensibly to pack for the journey back to Alexandria the next morning. Grief hung in the air around Hilltop like smoke, tangible and choking. It would stick in the back of the throat, cling to clothing and be difficult to wash away.

The desire to run as far away from Hilltop, away from the pain, nearly overwhelmed Daryl Dixon. He stroked the handlebars of his motorcycle and watched the crowd of mourners disperse. He was letting his anger cool, away from the young prisoner held in the cellar of the house. Daryl’s own sense of loss, his sense of hope, that there would always be time for the things he had left unsaid to Paul, he stuffed down with everything else he would never be able to express. Daryl watched Aaron walk out the front gates, pulling his prosthetic arm around himself in a cold embrace.

Daryl wandered Hilltop, attempted to eat, then took his watch. While standing guard, he kept a close eye on the road leading out toward the Whisperers’ territory. Eventually, Daryl was relieved by a young woman with a frown and a business-like demeanor. The moon was high and the community was quiet as he went down the ladder, intending to bring his sleeping bag up to the watch platform. Passing the cemetery, he saw a figure laying on the mound of dirt over Paul’s grave.

Aaron was staring up at the sky, his one hand holding a mostly empty bottle of Jim Beam, the other arm thrown outward. Aaron’s white t-shirt stood out starkly against the dark ground. The glistening tracks of tears and the hitch in his breathing gave Daryl pause. Aaron didn’t cry easily, and he wasn’t a man who liked to drown his sorrows. Daryl could count on one hand the times he had seen Aaron with a drink in his hand. 

Daryl kicked his friend’s foot gently, prodding Aaron for his attention. “You OK man?”

“No. I don’t think I’ll ever be OK again, Daryl.” Aaron spoke up into the sky as if it was a holy revelation. He made no move to look at his friend.

Daryl sighed, knowing his plan to keep watch by himself had already fallen into dust. He couldn’t leave Aaron crying on Paul’s grave, getting drunker by the minute. “Alright, let’s go. C’mon.” 

Daryl took the bottle and grabbed Aaron’s good arm, pulling him to his feet. Aaron let out a gasp of protest as Daryl poured the last swallow of Jim Beam over the grave. “If we’re gonna get drunk, we’re gonna do it right.”

Aaron gave Daryl a watery, lopsided grin as he was pulled away from the cemetery.

The area between the Southern-most corner of the fence and the small distillery had been host to Daryl Dixon many nights over the years. It was sheltered from the wind, offering enough room to build a fire and bed down for the night safely. Daryl tucked Aaron into the space before grabbing his bed roll and snatching a jar of spirits from the distillery. While Aaron swayed drunkenly, Daryl lit a small fire, more for a point of focus than for warmth.

“I’m gonna miss him…” Aaron began, raising the jar to his lips. The sting of the alcohol in his throat barely registered. “I miss you, Daryl. You know that? I miss you!” Daryl sat back against the fence, taking back the jar and taking a sip. He winced as the pure grain alcohol burned a trail to his stomach, but he took another sip. Aaron sat, legs crossed, shoulder-to-shoulder with Daryl, who had one leg stretched out in front of him to give him room to search his jean pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

“I miss seein’ ya’ll too.” Daryl’s voice was soft as he swirled the alcohol around in the jar, a cigarette in his other hand.

“Two days ago I was hunting with Rosita. We came across Kelly and Yumiko and the others. It hasn’t even been two days.” Aaron’s weight against Daryl’s shoulder grew heavier as he spoke. “I think we all thought he was invincible. I think Jesus thought he was… he was training me, but that’s done now. All done now.” Aaron’s voice broke, fresh tears spilling onto his filthy t-shirt.

Daryl responded by pulling a thick blanket around them both, awkwardly putting an arm around Aaron’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Aaron said, over and over, trying to stop the tide of “never agains” and “what ifs” that bubbled up.

“It’s alright,” Daryl started. “I know. Paul was… he was fuckin amazing. With all his ninja moves and his sword. Even with all that hair. I wanted to leave him up a tree, day we found him. Little shit.” Neither man could hold in a laugh, remembering the slippery, conniving man Jesus could be.

“You two are so much alike,” Aaron said, smiling through his tears. Daryl side-eyed his friend, blowing out an exasperated sigh. “You are! You were.” Aaron took another big swig of alcohol. “He never let anyone get close, no one knew about his life before the turn. While you just glared everyone down, he would put on this mask, be the Jesus everyone needed him to be. It worked, I guess. We, you know…” Aaron shrugged, “a few times but he never wanted more.”

Daryl wasn’t surprised by this information in the least, but he didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t deny that Aaron was right and knew it would be futile to object to his friend’s assessment. “And you did? Want more?”

Aaron turned to his friend as the fire crackled and spit embers toward the sky. He considered Daryl one of his best friends but this was a subject they stayed far away from. In the years since Rick’s death, they hadn’t seen one another often, but as good friends do, they always found familiar comfort in each other. “I thought I did, but…” Aaron just stared at Daryl, the hint of a grin on his face. “He wanted more with someone else.”

Daryl refused to meet Aaron’s eyes. He was afraid of what the other man might see in his own. He was afraid for Aaron to know how much that revelation stabbed at him. He couldn’t bear for Aaron to know what a coward he had been, keeping Paul at arm’s length all this time. Unbidden, errant tears fell down into the scruff on his cheeks, the sight of which made Aaron’s grin falter. Daryl scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned forward to poke absently at the fire.

“You didn’t know?” Aaron’s voice was brittle with grief.

Daryl’s voice was barely a whisper. “No. I wish I had.”

Aaron laid a warm hand on Daryl’s back, where one angel wing had been torn from the leather. “He loved seeing these angel wings. Hated them too, because it meant you were leaving.” 

Aaron’s big hand crept up to Daryl’s tense shoulder blades. “He used to wax poetic about your arms. He was sure you greased them up just to tease him.” Aaron let his hand trail down Daryl’s bicep, to where his arm met his thigh, fingernails dragging along the fabric. “And when you were on your bike? Oh man.”

“Stop!” Daryl lurched away from Aaron’s touch and stood. Aaron followed, shaken. “Ain’t none of that shit gonna happen now! He’s dead!” 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry, I –“ Aaron reached for his friend, who was pacing, body taut with anger.

“He’s dead Aaron. There’s never gonna be me and him. He’s dead man! He’s gone. He’s dead.” Daryl seemed to deflate in front of a wide-eyed Aaron. His voice broke and he let out one defeated sob.

“It’s OK.” Aaron pulled the other man into his arms, cradling his head. “I didn’t know how you felt.” His friend cried in earnest, hands grasping back of Aaron’s t-shirt in tight fists. They stood there, holding on until Daryl had cried himself out.

“I loved him, Aaron.” Daryl pulled away and looked right into Aaron’s kind blue eyes.

Aaron pushed a few strands of hair away from Daryl’s red-rimmed eyes. What he saw on the other man’s face was a look he had never seen before. The mercurial, stoic hunter was brokenhearted, more wounded than the day they first met. Aaron didn’t know how raw Daryl’s heart was then, but he saw it now. “I know. I did too.” 

For a moment, all they could do was look at one another. Whether it was moonshine or grief or loneliness, neither man could say, but when Aaron increased the pressure of his fingers on the back of Daryl’s neck, he didn’t hesitate to close the few inches that separated them. The kiss was quick. Soft and chaste. And when Daryl pulled back, a thought floated through Aaron’s mind that nearly brought him to his knees. _“Paul always wondered what it would be like to kiss Daryl.”_

The other man’s face swam in a blur of tears as Aaron leaned in for another kiss. There was no hesitation, no apprehension. The soft scratch of Daryl’s stubble against Aaron’s face and the ping of teeth between lip had them both trying to pull the other impossibly closer. Aaron’s prosthetic arm kept a strong hold on Daryl, pulling his hips in and in and in. As they kissed, the undulating rhythm trying to synch their bodies in an intimate dance had Daryl’s hand reaching down to still Aaron’s hips, a rough hand cupping and holding his ass. Aaron gasped and broke away for air, giving Daryl a chance to taste the salt on the throat bared to him, fingers tangling in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote after watching some commentary from Tom Payne and Ross Marquand about Paul Rovia's death and the expectation of the show to follow the comics.


End file.
